


Ten Moments

by golden_orange



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humor, Introspection, Multi-Era, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-27
Updated: 2010-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_orange/pseuds/golden_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten Doctors, ten moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Scars" (First Doctor, Susan)

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a Who fic (or anything) longer than 100 words (for a while, anyway). Inspired by the LJ '25 moments' challenge; I decided to pick the first ten and focus on one for each of the ten Doctors. Enjoy!
> 
> The First Doctor's moment.

It is a cold, grey and wet November evening, and he is an old man, self-exiled, light years and centuries away from everything and everyone he understands. It is a difficult thing to rip oneself away from one’s home forever, and he sometimes wonders whether the scars will ever heal.

It is, he sometimes thinks, easy for these humans. To be trapped on one small planet, confined as a species together and unable to break apart from everything they have ever known, forced to remain together despite their petty divisions. To not know the freedom of travel from world to world and sun to sun, to not feel the temptation to tear apart from their own race when the divisions become too difficult to tolerate and face the cold, hostile universe alone. 

Well, not quite alone. He has dear Susan, of course (the name she has chosen to take, as to hide better from any searchers from Home who may not tolerate their decision to flee, her birth name abandoned as they abandoned their home; another sacrifice of his rash decision to flee, another wound he has inflicted on one he loves), but he can see the wounded loneliness in her eyes that she tries so hard to hide from him. Try as she might, she cannot connect with these humans; she is so much older even than the teachers who attempt to indoctrinate her with their primitive understanding of the world, to say nothing of the youths she resembles in appearance only. She tries so hard to fit in, and it pains him deeply to see the hurt she feels as she cannot.

It was not supposed to be like this; the promise of freedom amongst the stars and the ages has become a fearful, lonely exile amongst the abandoned rubbish of a primitive backwater, hiding from the vengeance of those whose technologies they stole and whose ways they so prominently rejected. Trapped amongst beings whose ways they will never belong to and isolated forever from the life they understood, even as they hated everything it represented, living in a Ship that can take them to any point in eternity but which he fears to pilot away from a scrapyard.

A thin drizzle falls, and the fog begins to thicken. He scowls and begins to make his way back home. Such as it is.

*


	2. "Vacation" (Second Doctor, Jamie, Zoe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Doctor's moment.

“Well, my word, that was a tricky business and no mistake, wasn’t it? Yes, I think we could all do with a little breather after that one.” The Doctor fusses around the console, flicking at the buttons and screens with his handkerchief; it doesn’t so much clean it as spread the dust around. After a few minutes of fussy dusting, he forgets all about it and stuffs the handkerchief back in the pocket of his frock coat.

“Yes, yes, I think a nice little holiday is order, yes.” The Doctor claps his hands together and smiles at his friends. “Well then, why don’t one of you pick; where shall we go?”

Across the console, Jamie folds his arms together and looks at the Doctor with an expression of resigned scepticism. “I don’t ken why ye ask us in the first place, Doctor, as we all know the chances of ye getting us to where ye say we’re goin’ are so unlikely as to be near impossible.”

The Doctor glares at him. “Eh? What do you mean by that?”

“Ah, why Doctor, we all know ye cannae control the TARDIS te save ye life. And it’s not like there’ve no been times where ye’ve had to do just that, and look what’s happened!”

“Now, steady on, Jamie…” Zoe admonishes, all too aware of where this is likely to end up. “It’s not like the Doctor doesn’t try to get to the right place, he just… _can’t_, that’s all.” She adds loyally.

This doesn’t help. “Oh — oh, my, no! Can’t control it, indeed?” The Doctor splutters, wringing his hands irately. The very rudeness! Jamie and Zoe shouldn’t be saying things like that, not in the slightest!

It’s more true than the Doctor would like to admit, to be fair, but even so, they still shouldn’t _say_ it.

“Of course I can control it!” he snaps. Jamie’s expression is more sceptical, if such a thing is possible, and it’s that which finally sets the Doctor off. “Right! I’ll show the pair of you! Can’t control it, indeed!” The Doctor’s hands are a flurry over the TARDIS console; deep within the endless depths of the ship, the engines grind away and force the TARDIS out of space and time. “Paris, 1889! That’s where we’re going!” He looks up and scowls petulantly at Jamie and Zoe, as if daring them to question him or his piloting.

They eventually end up on a beach in Florana in the ninety-third century, as the twin suns are setting. But, as the Doctor insists, it’s close enough, and at least there’s ice cream.

*


	3. "Jealousy" (Third Doctor, Jo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Third Doctor's moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hint of Three / Jo shippiness here.

The Doctor is not interested in the slightest who Jo Grant chooses to spend time with outside of UNIT.

Not. Interested. At. All.

It is her prerogative, after all; if she would rather spend the evening entertaining a dullard rather than visit a world that has been described as the jewel of nine galaxies, then so be it. It is no concern of his whatsoever. No concern at all. If Jo wishes to go out on a ‘date’ with a solicitor who wears brown corduroy of all things rather than race the event horizon of a supernova, then that’s her loss, and he certainly isn’t sulking about it. Time Lords are above sulking, especially when it comes to pretty blondes who clearly have no taste in men whatsoever, if the man who picked Jo up earlier enough is anything to go by.

Granted, the jewel of the nine galaxies and the supernova race will have to wait until he’s got the dematerialization circuit fixed, but he’s sure that he’s nailed it this time, and in case, if Jo refuses to believe that he’s finally worked it out and would rather ‘blow off’ (as he believes the phrase is, or was, or will be, anyway) the excitement of the cosmos for a man called Norman, then that’s her problem and it doesn’t bother him at all. Not in the slightest, the Doctor thinks, as he scowls at the tea lady as she shifts a beaker in order to put his cup down on the table surface.

Well then. Fine. The Doctor’ll just try out the dematerialization circuit by himself, then. Let Jo have her Norman and his corduroy and his gold rings and his subtle but definitely emerging bald-patch (oh, the Doctor took note of that when she introduced them earlier) and his doubtlessly fascinating dinner conversation about all the amazingly fascinating things that happen in the British legal system. He’ll fix the demat circuit and install it and take off in the TARDIS and have a really really good time all by himself, and he won’t think of Jo and what she’s doing at all. He’s not interested at all.

He is, in fact, so intent on not being interested about Jo that he doesn’t actually notice her arrive in the lab until he turns and almost spills a vial of demineralised water all over her.

“Well, that’s a fine hello.” She teases good-naturedly.

“Jo?” The Doctor blinks, surprised. “I thought you had a, ah, ‘date’, tonight?”

“What, Norman?” She pulls a face. “Worst evening of my life. God, he was _dull_. Spent the entire meal talking about his stock portfolio. I swear, that’s the last time I let Carol Bell set me up on a blind date.” She dumps her bag on the workbench and completely fails to notice the Doctor’s look of surprised triumph. “And he did a really horrible job at hiding that bald patch, as well. Anyway, I spend the entire meal catatonic, and I finally managed to shake him — and don’t you think he wasn’t getting a bit frisky with his hands as well — and I need something to cheer me up.” Jo turns and grins at the Doctor. “You’re good at that — what are you up to?”

The Doctor rubs the back of his neck and smiles. Of course, he’d known all along that Jo had more sense than to be taken in by a chap called Norman. Obviously. Never doubted it for a second. Ahem.

“Well, it’s fortunate that you arrived, actually.” He says modestly. “I was just about to take the old girl out for a spin.”

She leans forward, eagerly. “You’ve fixed the circuit?”

“I won’t know for certain until we try it, but I’m confident that this time…”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Jo grabs her bag and within seconds is in the TARDIS doors, looking at the Doctor with eyes wide and shining with excitement. The Doctor loves it when she smiles at him like that. “Come on!”

As he turns and grabs his cloak from the hook by the door, the Doctor permits himself a small smile of triumph.

Take that, Norman.


	4. "Life or Death" (Fourth Doctor, Sarah)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fourth Doctor's moment.

On the viewscreen, the planet Garden looms closer, the billions on it’s surface unaware that an army of torturers, rapists and plunderers stand ready to flood it’s surface and that enough weaponry to crack a sun in half is aimed and ready to fire upon receiving a simple command. Beside the Commander of the Hell Fleet is Sarah, on her knees, eyes teary and wide with fear, the metal collars around her neck, wrists and ankles throbbing with evil intent and able to boil her from the inside with a mere thought. Upon entering the command chamber, the Doctor has only a second to take in the situation before the Commander of the Hell Fleet speaks.

“Choose, Time Lord,” She crackles from the translation box around her scarred, withered neck, artificial eye glaring at him. “The life of your female or the lives of the billions on the planet below. What will it be?”

It is a terrible choice, one that no sentient being should ever have to make, between countless innocents or the life of a loved one. Between life and death. All eyes on deck are on the Time Lord, who stands still and calm in his hat and scarf, unmoving. 

Seconds take an eternity to pass, and still the Doctor does not move, still does not choose.

“Well, Doctor?” the Commander crackles again, voice thick with triumph. “Have you chosen?”

“Oh, yes,” the Doctor says casually.

“And? Who have you chosen to let live?”

The Doctor grins, hugely. With that many teeth, it’s almost savage. “Well, both of course.”

And it’s at that point that explosions rock the ship, and things get _really_ interesting.

*


	5. "Music" (Fifth Doctor, Tegan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fifth Doctor's moment.

Another quarry. Great.

Tegan doesn’t want to complain - well, she _does_, but she’s more than aware that the phrase ‘mouth-on-legs’ has been applied to her in the past, in a less-than-flattering fashion, which is all that’s keeping her quiet right now - but, well, it’s a _quarry_. An alien quarry, maybe; the night sky is dark purple, and there’s three moons, one of them green, but it’s cold, and dark, and wet, and she keeps slipping on the dirt and slate. Her clothes are covered in mud, and she’s one more tumble away from biting something’s head off.

The Doctor, of course, strides ahead with his straw hat at an annoyingly jaunty angle atop his blonde hair, looking around his surroundings with pleasant and genuine interest, making him first candidate for head-removal-by-biting. Infuriatingly, despite the fact that his clothes are nearly all cream and white, there’s not a speck of mud on him.

“How much further?” Tegan asks, trying - not very hard, granted, but trying nonetheless - to keep the irate whine out of her voice.

“Nearly there!” The Doctor yells back cheerfully. “Do try and keep up!”

Tegan grits her teeth, counts to ten, and stomps moodily after him.

The Doctor eventually stops at the top of what Tegan can only describe as a dirt-dune, waiting expectantly with his hands in his pockets. It takes a lot more stumbling, cursing and glaring before Tegan is there to join him, discovering that they walked this way to see…

“It’s mud,” Tegan says flatly. “A lake of mud.” And it is; what can only be describes as a lake of thick, black mud lies as far as the eye can see. “You’ve brought me here to see a lake of mud.”

The Doctor, infuriatingly, doesn’t see a problem with this. “Technically, it’s silt,” he says happily. “For most of this planet’s orbital cycle this is under water; we’ve arrived just after low tide.”

“It smells.” 

Tegan doesn’t even bother to keep the petulant sulk out of her voice this time.

The Doctor gives her a withering frown. “Do have a little faith, Tegan. Be patient. If I’m correct, then… yes… listen!”

For a moment, there is silence. “I can’t…”

_Hear anything_, she means to say, until she realizes that that isn’t true; she can hear what sounds like a cricket whistling. Then another, and another, and another, different insects, different tones and sounds and pitches… except it isn’t just insects chirping at random, it’s… something else. It’s melodic. Tegan doesn’t know much about music, but she recognises it when she hears it, and this is definitely written. It’s as if the insects of the world have gotten together and written a symphony.

And it’s beautiful. It somehow speaks to her. Tegan doesn’t know the species that inhabit this planet - she can’t even see them - but she recognises the emotions that they’re singing in this alien language (and it is singing, she realizes, billions of beautiful voices raised in song), joy and love and loss and pain and regret and hope…

She’s surprised to realize her cheeks are wet.

She doesn’t know how long the music lasts, but eventually it begins to fade, voices dropping away, until all that’s left are echoes and Tegan’s memories, the song repeating inside her head.

"The insects of this world spend most of the year burrowed in the silt and rocks under the water,” The Doctor explains cheerfully. “This is their awakening festival, when they celebrate their freedom and mourn those who didn’t make it . Lovely. I’ve been meaning to come back here for a while, but…” He looks, and notices his crying companion. “Tegan? Are you alright?” he asks, placing a friendly hand on her shoulder in concern.

Incapable of speaking, Tegan turns and hugs him, burying her face in his chest, feeling his hearts beat. And even as the song continues to play in her memories, she can’t help but take a tiny bit of vengeful pleasure at getting mud on his cricket jersey.

*


	6. "Kiss" (Sixth Doctor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sixth Doctor's moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a bit... risque. Nothing graphic, but there's mentions of nudity. Be warned.

The private chambers of the Empress of Seven Suns are adorned in red silk and velvet, and the air is heavy with the scent of perfume and flowers. A massive four-poster bed dominates the centre of the room, simply too large and luxurious for one person. The posters - and most of the sculpting and artwork in the room, for that matter - appears to depict physically-unlikely humanoids engaging in various physical acts that look designed to stretch human vertebrae and bone structure to it’s limits in almost every conceivable fashion.

It is, the Doctor thinks as he clutches the mismatched lapels of his coat and looks around with raised eyebrow, quite unnecessarily ostentatious.

From an antechamber (leading to what the Doctor assumes is Her Majesty’s private bathing chambers, judging by the overall wetness of everyone who appears) the Empress herself swans in, a dark-haired woman clad in a white silk kimono that clings to her damp body, revealing a trim-yet-powerful physique. If you were so inclined, you might call her attractive; devastatingly so, if your inclinations took you that far. She is waited on by two youthful hand-maidens (barely dressed, of course; the Empire of the Seven Suns seems to disdain clothing, making the Doctor appear even more over-dressed than usual), whose eyes seem focussed on the ground in her presence; their hair falls down and obscures their faces, as if they are ashamed of how they appear before their ruler. She gazes at the Doctor for a moment, evaluating him; her eyes are orange (a curious genetic trait amongst the ruling class of the Seven Suns that the Doctor has often wondered about, having often considered writing a paper on the subject…) and yet, despite the warm colour, are cold and icy.

“Leave us,” the Empress commands with a flick of her wrist and the kind of arrogantly dismissive tone towards her servants, with it's implication that they are so greatly inferior to her, that never fails to put the Doctor’s back right up. The handmaidens, having been born and raised within the Empire of the Seven Suns, demonstrate an appropriately cringing deference to the woman who’s single word in this realm can mean the difference between life and death, and shuffle out of the room, heads bowed low. She smiles, and strides towards the Doctor; her hips sway in a fashion that the Doctor presumes is meant to be seductive. “Time Lord. Welcome. I have long since wondered when one of your kind would deign to visit my realm. For you and your wonderful craft to appear within my own throne room is fortuitous indeed.”

“Purely an accident, I assure you.” The Doctor waves a yellow-and-black cuff dismissively. “An oversight I intend to correct when you return my TARDIS to me.”

The Empress laughs, a deep, throaty giggle. “You amuse me, Time Lord. I bestow favour upon those who amuse me, as you will soon learn. But surely you of all recognise the fate that brought you right to me as you did? My people and yours share and understanding of time, and how it’s complexities weave patterns that those inferior to us are incapable of seeing.”

“I very much doubt that, madam. Now, if you’re quite finished…?”

“Surely you do not intend to leave before hearing the offer I have for you?”

“And that would be?”

“Why, myself, Time Lord.” And with one fluid movement, the Empress shrugs off her kimono, leaving it a puddle of fabric on the floor. She is naked underneath. The Doctor briefly wonders whether he should point this out to her, but decides that she’s probably already aware of it.

“I require a mate, Time Lord.” As the Empress slinks towards the Doctor, the tattoos over her tanned olive skin indicating her royal status shift with the movement. “One to share the spoils of my efforts to unite these suns under one glorious banner, and one to continue the strength of my line. And clearly fate has brought you and I together.” 

_Oh_, the Doctor thinks.

She leans into the Doctor, and he can feel the heat of her body through his clothes. “Join with me in union, Time Lord,” she whispers into his ear, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Separate, we are formidable. Together, we will be _unstoppable_.”

_Ah_, the Doctor thinks.

Countless millions have died either by this woman’s hand or by her order. She has united seven solar systems under a banner signaling terror, suffering and pain. Her and her kind exist only to oppress the weak and defenseless, to crush their spirits, belief and hope. The Doctor wonders briefly whether she’s the kind of woman who would appreciate an honest answer.

“A tempting offer, madam,” he replies. “But I’m afraid I must decline. For you see, I detest you and everything you stand for.”

_Some people just don't appreciate honesty_, the Doctor thinks as her guards throw him into one of the royal dungeons.

*


	7. "Sated" (Seventh Doctor, Ace)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seventh Doctor's moment.

“Gentlemen,” the Doctor remarks calmly to the two mutated extra-dimensional horrors that were once the Head Chef and the Sous Chef of the finest restaurant in the known universe as they stalk towards him, slavering. “After all you’ve eaten, are you not full yet?"

They screech at him unintelligibly, their ability to present rational replies long since degraded away by the extra-dimensional intelligence that possessed their minds and corrupted their bodies as it tried to force it’s way into reality. But of course they are not full. Their appetites will never be sated, even if the universe is devoured to fill them.

As if he understood every word, the Doctor nods. “I see. Unfortunately, if I feed you now, I’ll spoil your appetite for later. You really should have thought of that earlier. So I’ll bid you _bon appetite_.”

With a big smile, the Doctor raises his hat politely. As they snarl at him in frustrated rage from behind the line of kitchen salt scattered carefully in front of the open transmat gate, he flips his hat back onto his head and skips neatly into the gate, disappearing just as the Head Chef, the Sous Chef, the entirety of the Restaurant _Eternità_ and the gateway to realities unknown that the two sold both their souls and the souls of everyone in the restaurant to open are reduced to their component atoms in an explosion caused by a cocktail of Andalanian spices and modified nitroglycerin.

Nanoseconds later, the Doctor reappears silently on the farm world _Eternità_ has, up until now, been orbiting in the higher reaches of the atmosphere, just in time to see the explosion from outside as well as inside. As he takes a moment to watch _Eternità_ tear itself apart high up in the atmosphere, he must acknowledge that the explosion is far larger than he anticipated; but Andalanian spices are notoriously unstable, and the trouble with opening spectacular gateways between realities is that their closing tends to be equally spectacular. At the very least, he hopes it will serve as a message and a warning to any such shadowy intelligences that might be watching this universe and thinking of lunch; the Doctor takes a dim view of the kind of culinary experiments that were occurring in the _Eternità’s_ kitchens, and this universe is off the menu.

He has materialized behind a group of his friends - Ace, of course, and the Pastry Chef and the Maître D' and a handful of other patrons and staff of_Eternità_ who managed to free themselves from the shadowy other-dimensional intelligences that had corrupted the restaurant and were using it’s famed kitchens and power-hungry chefs to feed themselves, and who he teleported away from danger earlier. They are looking up at the sky, at the fiery remains of _Eternità_, faces concerned and alarmed. They haven’t noticed him yet.

“I believe that dinner is cancelled,” the Doctor says, voice light and deceptively Scottish, grinning as they spin around in surprise. From the looks on their faces, they’re obviously wondering how he appeared right behind them. Truth be told, the Doctor isn’t certain either; he set the transmat to have him appear in front of them because he thought it’d be more dramatic. But let them wonder. In this body, the Doctor isn’t adverse to letting people believe in magic, especially if they also believe that he’s the one holding the wand.

Ace pushes past them, grinning, and runs to him. The Doctor isn’t sure whether the smile on her face is because of the fact that he’s safe or because of the massive explosion, but he has his suspicions.

“Knew you’d do it,” she says simply as she hands his umbrella back to him. The confident loyalty in her voice touches the Doctor right in the hearts, and he gently taps her nose.

“Doctor,” the Maître D' - no, Salvatore, as he should be and now is, the power of the creatures that stole his name and identity and trapped him and the others in _Eternità_ now broken for good - looks at him, resigned. He already knows the answer to the question he will ask, but must ask it anyway. “The Head Chef, did you manage to…?”

“No,” the Doctor replies solemnly. “No, I’m sorry. It was too late for them. They signed their contracts long ago. Unfortunately, they didn’t read the small print.”

Saddened, Salvatore nods. “Henri was always desperate to find the perfect recipe,” he remarked sadly. “I only hope wherever he is now, he has.”

The Pastry Chef - Maria - is looking around the crowd, eyes increasingly desperate. “She’s not here,” she murmurs, frantic. “Doctor, the people you transmatted down, surely there must have been more! Surely Stephanie must have…” she cuts herself off, not wishing to acknowledge the awful possibility presenting itself.

The Doctor looks at his watch. He set the TARDIS to automatically dematerialize with the last few remaining survivors he managed to find on _Eternità_five minutes before he detonated the station, including the young woman that Maria is so concerned for. They should be arrive any second now. Time for another magic trick.

“I think,” he murmurs, “if you’ll just be patient for a moment longer…”

The air is suddenly noisy as the TARDIS forces itself back into reality right next to them, to the astonishment of everyone except the Doctor and Ace, who looks at the Doctor knowingly. “Show-off,” she mouths as the TARDIS lands with a clunk and a young woman in an expensive waitress’ suit, already shaken by an invasion of extra-dimensional monstrosities and a ride in a time ship bigger inside than outside, unsteadily opens the door and peeps out nervously. She is unprepared for Maria to barrel into her, hugging and kissing her in naked relief, and for the joyful reaction from the others as more survivors unsteadily make their way out of the TARDIS.

The Doctor smiles. Happy endings. Delicious, nutritious and very very filling, and yet he can never seem to get enough of them.

*


	8. "Hungry" (Eighth Doctor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eighth Doctor's moment.

“Let’s get this over with,” Big Frankie Gianelli rumbles as they pull the guy in the long green coat out of the back of the Daimler and manhandle him across the deserted bridge. “I gotta plate of cannoli waitin’ for me at _Luigi’s_, and this guy’s ruinin’ my appetite.”

“Yeah,” Stevie Maretti grumbles. “You’re hungry, I’m hungry, let’s just do this right, huh? Boss wants this guy dealt with right.”

The guy - doesn’t have a name, just called ‘The Doctor’ as far as Stevie’s been told - looks at them with a kind of mildly concerned expression. With his long hair and his fancy but out of date clothes, he looks like some kind of fruit, kinda like Oscar Wilde only forty years too late. He ain’t really struggling, which is kind of a blessing, since it’s hard enough to get a guy in concrete shoes and handcuffs (donated by the two off-duty NYPD flatfoots the Boss hired to come along and make sure no one interfered tonight) from a car to the edge of a bridge without them struggling as well. In the distance, the bright lights of New York twinkle and glitter as they reflect off the Hudson. This guy’s going for a long swim tonight.

“Look,” he says calmly-but-just-barely, in that snooty British accent that pisses Stevie right off, “I really think you’re making a mistake, here. You really should let me go. There’s something very very wrong happening in this city, it’s happening tonight, and I’ve a nasty feeling that if you don’t let me go now you’ll all be dead by morning.”

“Shaddap.” Frankie replies, giving him a clip across the back of the head. He’s hungry - hell, Frankie’s always hungry, but the Boss interrupted dinner to make them deal with this guy, so Stevie sees where he’s coming from. He’d been looking forward to the gnocchi at _Luigi’s_ as well.

Worst thing is, this Doctor ain’t no fun at all. Usually when you’re disposing of people the Boss wants disposed of, you can at least get a bit of amusement from the begging and pleading. Stevie likes it when they start crying; the boys all fall over themselves when he imitates them afterwards. This guy ain’t like that; it’s almost like he ain’t even _scared_ of them, which Stevie really doesn’t like. He’s antsy, okay, but it’s antsy in a kind of ‘I’m-late-for-a-very-important-date’ kind of thing rather than a ‘please-don’t-kill-me-I’ll-get-the-money-tomorrow’ kind of thing.

“Wait wait wait wait wait,” the Doctor says as they finally get him to the edge, sounding a bit more agitated, “Can’t we discuss this? Calmly, _reasonably_, like rational sentient beings? Maybe over a cup of a tea? I have teabags. Do you use teabags in this decade? Oh well, you’ll like them anyway - some of them are mango flavoured.”

“Jeez,” Frankie rumbles as he and Stevie try and lift him over the side, “This guy’s heavy. Hey, you, buddy,” he calls to one of the off-duty cops keeping an eye out on the bridge, “Give us a hand, huh?”

“Screw you,” the cop says, “I’m just paid to watch out. Boss didn’t say nothin’ about pitching in.”

“Hey, come on, pal - help a guy out, huh? I got dinner waitin’.”

“Hey,” the cop snaps. “I got my wife cooking for me too, right now. You want me to help you off this guy, I want a larger cut. As in now.”

“A man with an awareness of his rights as a worker,” The Doctor pipes up. “I approve. Although I must wonder; aren’t you supposed to be an officer of the law? And if so, shouldn’t you be doing something to, I don’t know, stop this or something?

“Hey, buddy,” the cop snaps, sounding as if this guy’s touched a nerve, “the city don’t pay me well enough to care about what happens to you, and the guy who wants you offed pays me more than enough to not care. You wanna snoop around warehouses that don’t concern you? That’s your problem, not mine - mine is getting food on the table.”

“Well argued,” the Doctor replies sarcastically. “But look; you wouldn’t fancy just this once maybe making an exception?”

“Jesus!” the other cop snaps. “Can’t you shut that guy up?”

“He’s right,” Frankie growls, pulling a .45 out of his pocket. “Maybe with a hole in his head he’ll be more cooperative.”

Stevie starts to object; he don’t like just shooting them and ending it before they drop them, since part of the fun is picturing them sinking, struggling for their last few breaths as the concrete takes them deeper into the Hudson. But it’s academic, since the Doctor suddenly sighs, loudly and irritably, as if_they’ve_ just gotten on _his_ last nerve.

“_Fine_.” he snaps, almost petulantly. “I’ve tried being reasonable with you gentlemen. I guess I’ll just have to do this the hard way.”

Suddenly, in one swift movement with his arms, the handcuffs are off his wrists, clattering to the pavement. He flicks his right wrist, and there’s suddenly some kind of long golden wand in his hand, which he touches on Frankie’s pistol before Frankie even knows what’s going on; there’s a loud, shrill sound, and suddenly the gun is falling to pieces, loose bullets scattering at Frankie’s feet. Then, he touches the wand to the concrete around his feet, the shrill noise gets even more high pitched, and suddenly the concrete is nothing more than a pile of dust around his shoes, blowing away in a gentle breeze. He calmly steps forward; as if by instinct, everyone else takes a step back.

The entire escape has taken less then ten seconds.

The Doctor smiles at the hoods and cops who are gaping at him in complete astonishment, unable to react. “Oh, sorry,” he says mildly. “Didn’t I mention I could do that?”

Then, he looks down at his concrete-stained feet, reacts, and when he looks back up at them, he looks a lot more annoyed.

“You’ve ruined my shoes,” he says accusingly, “I really liked those shoes. They fit perfectly.”

Suddenly, Stevie don’t feel so hungry no more.

*


	9. "Drunk" (Ninth Doctor, Rose)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ninth Doctor's moment.

Alcohol does not affect Time Lords. Not the same way it affects humans, at least, and certainly not in the quantities that most places are willing to serve it. For one thing, it will not help the Doctor forget the things he’s seen and done, so he must do that in other ways.

It has become a lot easier since he met Rose Tyler.

She grins at him from across the TARDIS console as they shake and shudder their way through time and space, all innocence and hope and excitement, and when she smiles he finds himself smiling back, and for the first time in his current life so far it feels genuine. Like everything that happened was to someone else (which in a way of course it was, but in another way it wasn’t).

“So where are we going, anyway?” she shouts over the hissing and crackling of the TARDIS console.

“Oi - you wanted to be surprised, and a surprise is what you’re getting. Now button up and hold that lever down!”

She mock-pouts and sticks her tongue out at him, holding the lever down with all her strength. He finds himself concealing a smile, and wonders exactly why this little blonde human has such an effect on him when nothing else has worked. He tried changing himself from the inside out, swapping long hair and finery for a buzz cut and leather, and he tried losing himself in his wanderlust, racing backwards and forward across the universe to see everything and do everything. But his new look was that of a soldier, and his travels kept taking him from disaster to disaster, everywhere he turned a reminder of battle and fire and death. He couldn’t even look in a mirror without being reminded of what had happened. What he had done. There was no drowning of his sorrows, no merciful release from the past.

Until Rose.

The TARDIS lands with a shudder, but things are barely still before Rose is running to the door, full of youth and life. “Come on!” she yells over her shoulder as she pushes her way out of the door, eager to see what lies outside. He follows her, calmly and casually, knowing she’ll be waiting there when he get there.

Outside, the sky is gold and the grass is purple, and the calls of strange, exotic creatures can be heard for miles. A gentle stream trickles and bubbles beside them, water cascading over smooth rocks. The air smells like earth after a cleansing summer rainstorm. In the distance, past the rising hills, is a mountain range, it’s peaks taller than any on earth. And standing there, eyes wide with wonder, is Rose, drinking it all in.

The Doctor walks beside her and holds out his arms. “Did I deliver, or did I deliver?”

“Where are we?” she whispers.

The Doctor grins. “Doesn’t have a name. Hasn’t been discovered by anyone, besides me. You’re the first human being to stand on this world since… well, ever. I think it’s about time someone named it, though. Fancy the honours?”

Rose looks at him. “You’re serious?”

“Am I wearing clown shoes? If not, then yes.”

Rose frowns contemplatively for a moment, then nods. “Jackie.” she says firmly.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “‘Jackie’? You name a _planet_ after your _mum_?”

“You said I could name it, didn’t you? What’s wrong with ‘Jackie’?”

The Doctor gets the distinct feeling that answering that question would be a big mistake. “Very well; Planet Jackie it is. Fancy a look around your mum's planet, then?”

The look in Rose’s eyes makes him think he could jump over one of those mountains in a single bound. There’s no doubt about it; Rose Tyler is intoxicating, and it’s fantastic.

*


	10. "Moment of Clarity" (Tenth Doctor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tenth Doctor's moment.

It is a bright, warm morning, and he is an old man in a young man’s body, feeling the gentle breeze ruffle his brown, youthful hair and brush his unlined face. Once again he finds himself alone, distant from everything and everyone he knows and loves, once more the Lonely God wandering through time and space. It seems to be happening to him a lot, recently. He finds himself getting used to it, and isn’t entirely sure whether he approves of that feeling.

The Doctor does not know where and when he is, but the air is full of exotic spices and chattering in a thousand languages, and the narrow streets crowded with people of all shapes, colours, sizes and evolutionary paths. Some are human, some are not. He towers above most of them, lanky and skinny and out of place in his pinstripes and his brown overcoat, but he ignores the curious gazes he receives. He has never felt the need to dress to his surroundings to please the locals, and feels no particular reason to start doing so now at his age.

He is deep in thought, and has been ever since he found himself alone once again. He seems to be finding himself brooding more these days as well. Ever since Donna, ever since Martha, ever since Rose, ever since the War, the Doctor has found himself all-too-frequently musing over his life, contemplating so many unanswered questions and so many possible answers, tiny little problems ballooning together to form complex uncertainties. Some of them please him, others do not. Some of the questions and answers he tries to avoid, bouncing backwards and forwards through time and space to try and distract himself, throwing himself into hectic adventures and noisy crowds in order that he might find something to take his mind off them. Unfortunately, they are not so easily shaken, and often return to him in quiet moments such as this one, demanding his attention.

It’s so much easier to avoid them when he has someone around to keep him company, to show around the universe and save planets with and generally be awesome and spectacular and tremendously showy-offy in front of. He needs a human. Humans are good at that sort of thing, especially the females, and they usually come with their own problems that he can help them solve, providing further distraction. Especially if the problems are of the ‘help-Doctor-something’s-trying-to-eat-me’ variety. He’s good at solving those, and then he doesn’t have to think about all those things he’d rather not think about.

Well, most of the time.

Well, some of the time.

Usually.

And so the Doctor is deep in thought, lost in introspection within a maze of troubling thoughts and uncertainties, and so it takes him a moment to register the shouts and screams coming from the distance, and the sudden looks of panic on the faces of those around him. There’s suddenly lots of pointing and running going on, and when the Doctor looks in the direction they’re pointing to and running away from he sees a black space ship, hovering omniously above the city, the deep scars and dents indicating a ship that has seen a lot of trouble. What looks like a very unpleasant piece of weaponry (of the ‘of-mass-destruction’ kind, naturally) flickers and hisses from underneath the bow, pointed directly at the heart of the city.

And suddenly, for moment, everything that is bothering the Doctor no longer matters. It is abstract and philosophical, almost trivial, in light of this new danger. Here is something tangible, something real, something that can be dealt with now. His problems are not solved, and will return to trouble him once again, but for just a moment, the path is clear.

For just a moment, the Doctor is free.

He grins, and runs towards danger.

*


End file.
